


Direttore

by deuil



Category: Orso e Intellettuale Series
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuil/pseuds/deuil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The only constant about Faust Callaro lies in his inconsistencies, his love of freedom (by proxy, his love of Gino), his hypocrisy, his strength in his fragility."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Direttore

Devotion works in two ways: one-sided, where one party is so hopelessly infatuated with another that they blindly close their eyes to the other's shortcomings, or reciprocated, wherein both parties understand each other so thoroughly that each other's faults become just another thing to be celebrated. Devotion is a term specially used to denote a nuance of selfless sacrifice, of secrets traded or diverted-- a form of trust that is either perpetuated through willing self-flagellation or mutual agreement.

My relationship with Faust Callaro, then, cannot and will never be denominated as 'devotion'.

Faust Callaro, that selfish hypocrite of a politician. He's all smiles and smooth edges and subdued smiles, reeling in men with a carefully constructed sophistication, using his position as an anchor with which he steadies himself and stays floating above the surface, treading murky water with all the elegance of a swan. He preaches hatred while steeping himself in late-night rendezvous, advocating intolerance while he dances with the very people he persecutes underneath the covers. Faust Callaro is a liability, a headache, the continuing source of my poor health. I am his secretary, his _schiavo_ , his second; always his second, never his first, as he tells me with smiling lips and a fickle glint in his eye. Faust Callaro is as impossible as he is impeccable, though the latter is due largely to my own efforts combined with his brother's, adorable inimitable Gino Callaro, the champion of the Italian publishing agencies. Faust's first and only, his shining star, his true confidante who finds scandal with his brother's name on it and silently and efficiently administers the white-out.

Faust Callaro is perfect, because Gino and I make sure he is.

And I ask, did you know?, over a cigarette and an upwards glance towards Gino, Gino with his scarf that I recognize from Christmas two winters ago. Faust had asked me to buy it, a gaudy pink and yellow, his mellow profile catching artificial light as he told me that Gino liked bright colors. And I ask, Gino, did you know that you're the most important thing in Faust's life?

Sure I do, he says, and there's not even a glimmer of doubt there, not a moment of contemplation. And that's why I'm devoted to him, that's why I'd do anything for him, Gino says, emphasizing the nature of his relationship with his brother with a shrug, as if it's the most obvious and natural thing in the world.

Devotion. That word again.

No, my relationship with Faust Callaro can't be categorized in the same way-- my employer, my _direttore_ , my headaches, my ulcers. He smiles at me and takes my hand, ever-capricious and ever unapologetic. He asks me how I'm doing, and I know that he does, to a degree, care. He asks me about my family. Formalities. He tells me about his interview. Work. He talks about his lover, Bruno Bardini. Teasing. Faust Callaro is all over the place, his mercurial topics never deviating from his soothing, even tone of voice, even as he searches my face and shows amusement at the smallest signs of annoyance. The only constant about Faust Callaro lies in his inconsistencies, his love of freedom (by proxy, his love of Gino), his hypocrisy, his strength in his fragility.

He tells me that he needs me, and despite the fact that I believe him as much as I believe his speeches preaching homophobia (which is essentially utter nonsense), I take his hand and hold it, feeling the warmth for just a moment before letting go.

No, this isn't devotion. It's selfishness, going both ways, silently acknowledged.

He tells me that he needs me, and I tell him no, what he needs is his brother and his freedom and his luxuries, and he needs me to protect those things. There's a laugh and a sigh, one and the same, and Faust gives me one of those small looks, a flicker of the expression that says 'you know me so well'. And that, that in itself, is my validation.


End file.
